


Outside History

by Wheelrider



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, My Slashy Valentine, The People of Haleth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 07:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3282146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheelrider/pseuds/Wheelrider
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The seeds of love survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside History

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



> This was written for Elleth as part of the My Slashy Valentine fic exchange. Her request included a poem for optional inspiration: "Outside History" by Eavan Boland. As it proved quite inspirational I hope she doesn't mind that I stole the title.
> 
> Viva femslash!

One by one, they clamber up the last of the slope, struggle through thorny bushes, and gather in a wide empty space. Between heaving breaths, Sedil counts the dim figures as they separate themselves from the shadows. Some barely crawl; others are upright. They cast themselves onto the ground or crouch with head in hands. Quiet moaning comes from somewhere. _One-and-twenty, two…where are Maethil and her son? Heldan?_ Her thoughts run weak and wild. She tries to compose herself— _breathe, calm, quiet_ —and starts again. She circles the space, noting each of her charges, looking toward the edges for more; yet the trickle slows, and then stops. She circles again. Too few. She comes in sight of several of her shield-sisters and their Lady. One holds out a hand to stop her from circling yet again. No more will come.

She stands there, dumb and unseeing for a moment. There had been little fear—scarce could she feel fear any longer—and now there is but little grief to follow. More of their people were lost; yet the Haladin remain. Their Lady remains. They will go on.

————

Dawn breaks over a rolling land, turf and scattered trees stretching away before them, deeper folds hiding jagged trenches behind. Sedil stands with her Lady, facing away from the rising light to see what it will show of their path. It is a small but precious comfort.

“Think you we should return to the road?” she asks. It is too simple a question; the hope, the debate now worn so thin as to be meaningless. The ancient flagstones have offered no guarantee of safe passage through stalking horrors and suffocating shadows. When no answer comes she thinks that her Lady is angry with her.

But she glances at Haleth and wonders instead if she has been heard at all. Her Lady stands utterly still, not in the posture of listening or of seeing, but carven, as though she will not be moved again. Her face in shadow is empty, her eyes dark. Sedil looks, and waits, and feels a chill creeping upon her. _Fear I can yet feel, for you._ Then Haleth seems to take a breath and come back to life.

Her Lady turns and looks at her for a long moment. Strands of her hair have escaped and frame her face, a dark halo lit from behind by the rising sun. The proud curve of Haleth’s cheek, though sharpened by hunger, the hard and deep jewels of her Lady’s eyes, shining out all the more for her roughened skin—these move her heart, always.

“You were so young, Sedil. Now you are a warrior.” 

Swelling pride is dampened by dismay at the regret she hears in her Lady’s voice. “I was not too young to follow you,” she says.

“That I know.” And her Lady looks out again, and to her relief, Sedil feels her draw in breath, sees her back straighten, her eyes become set on a point in the distant West. “We will go back to the road.”

They set about preparing for another march. A few dried bits of bread are shared out and wounds are tended. A man, grey of beard, has a claw mark in his leg; he says it was from an errant stroke of his knife, but the gash is already swelling and oozing foul-smelling pus. Their stores of ointment were used up days ago. Precious little drinking water remains in their skins. The healer wipes at the wound with wet ferns, the best she can do, and the man’s grandson holds out a ripped sleeve to tie around his leg. Sedil sees it and wishes the sleeve had been kept; she knows it is wasted.

Before midday the grandson, a gangly but sturdy youth, approaches Haleth. “My grand-da… he cannot go on. He keeps trying to turn…” The boy did not show fear for the foul creatures that came upon them in the night, but now he is trembling. He knows what has to be done. It was the same for those that drank the tainted water.

The beginnings of a curse form and die in the mouth of Haleth. She gestures for the boy to show her, and for Sedil to come along. They walk back through the throng ( _how few they are now!_ ), Sedil’s feet striking the ground with increasing vexation as they go, until they see the listing form of the grandfather, one leg dragging, head lolling.

He sees them and stops. “Care not…no enchantment…heal me…” He points away south, finger wavering unsteadily in the air, then stumbles on. He may not make ten steps, or he may keep going for a good while; he is, after all, one of the Haladin. They cannot allow it.

“You have done well, young man.” The boy looks at her with wide and brimming eyes, nods and turns away. Haleth signals for Sedil to take the boy to the front and keep the people moving.

After a while Haleth comes back alone. She strides past Sedil, giving a short nod. No one else can see the pain in her Lady’s eyes.

————

The next days pass quietly, though no one dares to remark on it. Their vigilance is no less, though it shows less; they are simply too exhausted to give more than the barest effort necessary to their task.

Sedil sees that the shape of the land is changing. Sudden ravines no longer yawn out of unnatural shadows. The turf rises and falls in honest swells that advance and recede as they should, no more strange tricks for the eye. She recalls the map given to them long ago by the Elf lord, its beautiful and delicate lines etched in her memory, if not the words, which she could not read. The map and its keeper were lost not long after they crossed the river the Elves name Esgalduin. But before that, before the journey turned dark and dangerous, she sat at night with her Lady and shield-sisters to study the map. The westward road looked simple enough, a straight dotted line going across four rivers and staying north of the forest. _Perhaps the words on the map gave some warning,_ she thinks.

The last river they had crossed, before the last attack, was the third, Mindeb. After the road turns to the northwest, the fourth, Sirion, will not be long in showing itself. Perhaps their journey is almost over. Sedil has a sudden urge to laugh, but all that comes is a half-smile.

And the turn in the road does come, as the grey light begins to fail amid silver mists and fine rain. They should travel further this day, but without words, they all come to a stop as the flagstones steer their steps to the northwest. Haleth does not press them onward. They are weary, so weary, and the feel of the land is no longer foreboding. A proper rest tonight will serve them well for what may yet come.

At camp there is soup, thin but hot, for the first time in many days. The water has been safe to drink since crossing the last river, and they dare to risk making small cooking fires. Sedil is surprised and grateful that her Lady has allowed it. Clots of people huddle around each bright spot of flame.

In the dark she feels something akin to warmth and contentment, a half-forgotten sensation, bringing memories of other times. Though she is not on first watch, she does not yet seek sleep; in part to keep hold of this feeling a while longer, in part to sit with her Lady. Sedil can see her in the warm half-light, sitting on a flat stone, back to the fire.

She goes to stand aside her and feels a thrill of joy as her Lady moves to make space for her on the stone. She sits as close as she dares.

For a time they sit in silence, together, as the dark deepens and the land stills. The wind has ceased to whisper in the grasses; crickets call timidly. Distant stars prick their lights in the smooth sky.

Sedil looks up at the stars, then down at her Lady’s booted feet. She should be content in the peaceful silence but she cannot help wanting more.

“What will we do, when we find our place?” The question is intended to speak of her people, but as it leaves her mouth, Sedil hears her heart speaking of closer matters long held secret.

Haleth turns her head slightly, then back to face the dark. “We will build a new home, as we wish, free of strange constraints and hidden debts.”

This, too, could be taken two ways. But Sedil doubts her Lady speaks of anything but her purpose for their people. “Will we be let alone?” she asks.

A pause, and an exhalation of breath she has heard before, stern and indignant. “We will, soon or late.” Sedil smiles to herself.

Once again Sedil looks up at the stars, idly following their patterns, one to the next. She knows that the Elves revere them; they are pretty, at times even beautiful, but inspire no feeling in her. They shine on, revealed or cloaked by clouds, whether she sits in peace or struggles for breath or spills her blood. The blood of the Haladin, now so thin.

“Will any remember us?” she asks.

The question sounds fanciful, foolish, but her Lady does not treat it so. “It may be that we will be remembered; it may be that we will be lost to memory, even the long memory of the Elves. It matters not. We choose to make our own history, and if our deeds and our deaths are not recorded in their great songs, so be it.”

The resolve in her Lady’s voice rouses her, as it never fails to do, and Sedil cannot help but respond.”Yes. It is so.” She sits back in contentment, arms encircling her knees. No matter what may come on the morrow, they will persevere, they will _be_ , the Haladin. And she will stand at her Lady’s side.

Silence returns for a time. Sedil’s eyes stray to her Lady, without willing, and she takes in her form sidelong, delighting in what she can without staring openly. _So strong she is, lithe and well-made, within and without._

The next words take her by surprise. “You have been a great help to me, Sedil.”

Once again, she feels pride tempered, this time by uncertainty. “That is all I could hope to do, my Lady.” 

“I know…I know it well.” Haleth sounds almost sad.

She turns fully to seek out her face. Suddenly she fears some disappointment, a parting forced by some unknown condition, and seeks to fend it off. “Be not grieved. I am content.”

Her Lady’s face is unreadable in the dark. “Are you? You have given so much…you are worthy of more…in return.” 

Just as suddenly, the fear passes away. Her heart beats wildly and scatters her thoughts, though she dare not form them into words, even in her mind. All she can do is look, listen, turn all her awareness toward her Lady. Her hand rises, hovers of its own accord. Her nerves reach out, yearning, seemingly beyond her skin, and her fingers are shocked when other skin touches them. Her Lady takes her hand, warm, strong, sure.

Sedil is overcome. She sits, stilled, feeling life and love pouring through her tender palm. The rush overtakes her and she raises her other hand to her Lady’s face, but just before she can touch that high and graceful cheek, her Lady grips her wrist and gently lowers it, but does not let go. A small part of her feels ashamed, waits for a reprimand, but the rest is still buoyant with joy.

Her Lady’s voice is low, when it comes, almost fading into the dark. “We must wait.”

Relief floods her. “Yes…I understand.” She is not sure that she does, but it does not matter, not now.

They sit together, under the remote stars, enclosed for a time in a world all their own.


End file.
